To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

  “I was born in Ukraine,” Olga said. “I grew up in Chicago.”

  “Enjoyed your little orgasm on the boat,” the guy said, grinning. He was missing his middle front teeth.

  “I tell you what,” Olga said. “You concentrate on fixing the engine. I’ll concentrate on not wondering if you’re going zombie and I should shoot you.”

  “Okay,” the guy said, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”

  “There is a time for fun and a time to concentrate,” Olga said as Rusty came in hauling one of the big marine batteries. “Know the difference.”

  “Where do you want it?” Rusty said.

  “I could make some suggestions,” Olga said, leaving the compartment.

  * * *

  Cutting out the larger yacht was equally simple. The first time they had to fire was when they were securing the last of the offshore inflatables. The inflatable didn’t have an outboard and the deck was teak. It really didn’t look a bit like the others. But it did look fast.

  They’d just boarded when an infected came stumbling up out of the previously unidentified cabin. It charged Mcgarity, screaming at the top of its lungs.

  The former specialist reacted by grabbing it by the hair and tossing it over the side. Unfortunately, that sort of scream was zombie for “dinner time” and more heads started popping up all over.

  “Let’s get this cut out,” Mcgarity said.

  “I can just untie it,” Olga said, running forward. There was only one line securing it.

  Infected were trotting down the wharf and Mcgarity pointed right.

  “Rusty, starboard,” Anarchy said, keying his radio. “Division, fire support, over.”

  “Roger.” Fifties started booming from the gunboat and the infected did their usual dance.

  “Anarchy!” Paula yelled. “Little help?”

  She’d tied the dinghy to the bigger inflatable, as they’d been doing, and when Olga got the lines free she’d started to pull out. Unfortunately, the infected had grabbed the tow line and was in the process of pulling himself aboard the dinghy.

  Anarchy walked onto the transom deck of the inflatable and put three rounds into the infected, just as it got a hand onto the side of the dinghy. Just about that time the tension in the tow-line snapped. He lost his footing and went over the side into the water.

  The weight of his gear sucked him down immediately and the sharks were already showing up for the shot infected.

  “RUSTY, OLGA!” Paula screamed. “Anarchy’s in the water!”

  The water was crystal clear. Olga looked over the side and could see the former specialist struggling to get out of his gear. But the sharks closed in. There was a gush of air and blood and the struggling stopped mercifully fast.

  “What’da we do?” Rusty said, rubbing his rifle and pointing it then lowering it. It was clear the big guy had no clue what to do next.

  “We go get a grapnel and try to get back as much as we can,” Olga said. “Hopefully, we’ll be allowed to give him a decent burial.”

  * * *

  “. . . Understood, Squadron. LitDiv, out.”

  Mcgarity’s loss had been a huge morale blow to the division. That was bad enough. But in Chen’s eyes, professionally, the worse blow was the loss of experience. Mcgarity was the only person he had who was school trained on the MaDeuce and had extensive experience with it. Not to mention the only one with combat experience prior to the Plague. Or, for that matter, more than Navy boot camp. He had one, count ’em, one Navy seaman who had been a seaman apprentice prior to the Plague and was now a PO3. Midshipmen and ensigns who had had “some prior civilian boating experience.” The DivTwo commander was a semi-professional, female, yachtsman. And not much older than Sophia.

  And now fucking Squadron wanted him to crew these new boats with the odds and sods they were carrying and “continue the mission”! “If any combat personnel become available, they will be moved to your location. Continue the mission.”

  “Sir,” Seaman Recruit Erlfeldt said. “Seawolf just boarded. Requests a minute of your time.”

  “Send her in,” Chen said. Just what he needed.

  Sophia was carrying a bottle of booze. With a shot glass on top.

  “Not what’s needed at this time, Ensign,” Chen said.

  “Booze is officially forbidden on U.S. Navy vessels, sir,” Sophia said, cracking the top and pouring a shot. “Except for two, count ’em, two shot bottles of medicinal bourbon per person aboard carried on all large vessels in the event of a significant trauma that requires broad tranquilization of the crews, sir.” She held out the shot. “And this was Anarchy’s favorite tipple.”

  Chen took the shot, toasted and downed it.

  “Specialist Cody ‘Anarchy’ Mcgarity,” Chen said. “May he rest in peace.”

  “Paula is taking the big yacht,” Sophia said. “Patrick is going aboard the smaller one as engineer. There is a guy with boating experience in the prize crews. He’ll take over as skipper. Ensign Bowman and I detailed off people to the boats and they’re being shuttled around. That should take about another thirty minutes. Then, we need to leave, sir.”

  “Continue the mission,” Chen said, handing the shot glass back.

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “With due respect, recommend stopping offshore for burial at sea.”

  “Concur,” Chen said. “Continue the mission.”

  CHAPTER 23

  When a soldier looks up on the battlefield he will not see his first sergeant, sergeant major, company commander, battalion commander . . . he won’t even see his platoon sergeant! He WILL see HIS sergeant . . . the squad leader, crew chief, team leader, tank commander . . . and this NCO will principally provide the leadership, advice, counsel, and firm and reassuring direction on that battlefield.

  Gen. Paul F. Gorman (U.S. Army)

  “Grab a seat, gentlemen,” Steve said, tapping at his computer. “Be with you in just a second . . .”

  He looked up after a moment and frowned.

  “I used to get to kill zombies,” Steve said. “These days I spend most of my time reading spreadsheets and reports. Which one is retired Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt?”

  Both of the men with him were probably pushing sixty. They weren’t alike, visually, but he had only been given the names.

  “Here, sir,” Schmidt said in a gravelly voice. He was silver-haired with dark brown eyes, nearly black, and a compact frame.

  “And that would make you retired Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, her Majesty’s Royal Army,” Steve said, looking at the second man. He was had the look of being formerly heavyset with sagging jowels. He’d recently shaved his head but it was apparent he was mostly bald, anyway.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said.

  “There are a million places I could use two former senior NCOs here in the main squadron,” Steve said. “God knows we need the experience and stability. That being said, we have an . . . opportunity with our littoral clearance flotilla. It’s already gotten a bit large for one Navy lieutenant to manage and they’ve just lost their only ground combat leader with any significant experience. U.S. Army tanker specialist. He was the best they had since the Marines are all busy clearing these liners. Sergeant Major, do you have any experience with the fifty-caliber BMG?”

  “We used them on our Ferrets, sir,” Barney replied. “Extensive.”

  “I’ve got experience with them as well, sir,” Schmidt said. “And in a marine environment. Which I take it this is.”

  “Small boats,” Steve said. “Yachts and fishing trawlers converted to gunboats . . .”

  “Sounds like we’re back to the War, sir,” Barney said.

  “My master’s thesis was on the defense of Malta,” Steve said. “I’m familiar with Her Majesty’s Navy’s ingenuity in the early part of the War, Sergeant Major. So, yes, very much so. The flotilla needs some experienced hands. If you turn it down, no foul. As I’ve said, I have plenty of places to put you. This is small boats out on the s
harp end. Rocks and shoals and falling over the side in a shark-infested harbor in full kit. Which was how we lost Anarchy.”

  “I spent my whole career in Scouts, sir,” Barney said. “Except for the boat part, it will be old home week, sir.”

  “I spent my entire career on carriers,” Schmidt said. “But there ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about the Navy, sir.”

  “Few more points I want you both to consider,” Steve said, leaning back. “You’re never going to get what you think of as ‘discipline’ out of these crews. You never do with small units that are frequently out of contact with higher. You didn’t with motor gunboats in the War, you didn’t with PT boats. They’re small boat crews. That’s what they’re like. It’s about motivating, not alienating. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t follow orders if given orders. They’ve been doing that. But . . . it’s not carrier ops and it’s not Her Royal Majesty’s Scouts. They’re a bunch of mostly kids who signed up to go shoot zombies without so much as a day of basic training. And you’re going to be the only professionals, except Lieutenant Chen, in the flotilla. That can be, assuredly will be, frustrating. That’s the first point and it’s an ongoing one.

  “The second point is getting to the flotilla. It is continuing operations down the coast. It is, currently, two hundred miles away and getting farther away as we speak. Which means we’re going to have to run you down there in an open inflatable fast-boat. It’s not rough today, but it’s going to beat the ever living shit out of you, anyway, gentlemen.

  “Last. I’m not quite sure how this happened but about half of the sailors and commanders in the flotilla are women. Some of the boat commanders are civilian, some military. The gunboats are all commanded by Navy ensigns and midshipmen, two out of three are women. They’re willing to take direction but unless you want me to make you officers, and I can in your case, Chief Schmidt, most of your bosses as well as coworkers are going to be women. And they are, even for women, a screwy bunch. You know what the compartments are like. And you’re going to have to manage that, as well. I suspect it’s especially bad with losing Cody. He was a great kid and everybody liked him.

  “So, last chance . . .” Steve said, raising an eyebrow. “Yay or nay?”

  “I’ll need some bloody Dramamine for the ride, sir,” Sergeant Major Barney said.

  “Scopolamine patch,” Steve said. “Takes about twenty minutes to kick in and it works better.”

  “You’re still going to puke your guts up,” Schmidt growled. “If the Limey’s up for it, how can I say no?”

  “By saying no,” Steve said.

  “I’m Irish, Chief Petty Officer,” Barney said. “So that would be Mick, Yank.”

  “I’m in,” Schmidt growled. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Sergeant Major, we have no contact with the British Government,” Steve said. “I therefore cannot reactivate your enlistment nor make you, as a British citizen, a sergeant major, or chief, in the U.S. forces. You are therefore a civilian given control over U.S. military personnel due to exigencies of service. There are precedents. I’ll ensure that Lieutenant Chen knows to have you referred to by your former rank. The rank and file won’t have a fucking clue about the difference.”

  “Understood, sir,” the sergeant major said.

  “Chief Petty Officer Schmidt,” Steve said. “With the concurrence of the Acting CNO and the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, you are hereby reinducted into the United States Navy with no loss in rank for the duration of hostilities.” Steve slid a piece of paper over. “Sign at the bottom.”

  “Married forty-three years, four months, nineteen days, sir,” Chief Schmidt said, pulling out a pen. “Twenty-three of those were in the Navy. Dorene was a great Navy spouse but she never liked it. She said she’d strangle me if I ever joined the Navy again. I guess it’s a good thing I had to do it to her when she turned, sir.”

  He signed on the line.

  * * *

  Puerto de Gulmar was just another damned town with another damned marina. With more damned boats and more damned zombies. And sharks.

  “What are you doing?” Sophia asked, walking up on the flying bridge. The pop, pop, of an M4 discharging had made the answer obvious.

  “Shooting sharks,” Olga replied. She had her M4 pointed at the water. “You shoot one, the other ones close in for the kill. Then you’ve got a target rich environment. And they’re not at the bottom of a fucking marina and out of range.”

  “Olga,” Sophia said carefully. “Unload your weapon and hand me the magazine.”

  “They ate Cody!” Olga said angrily.

  “I saw,” Sophia said. “Helped pull him out. Remember?”

  “You weren’t there!” Olga said. “You didn’t see him. He was trying! He nearly got his—”

  “Seaman Recruit, put down the weapon,” Sophia said. “Put it down. Now.”

  “Screw this,” Olga said, throwing the M4 down. “Screw this. Screw this Navy shit—”

  “Olga,” Sophia said. “Sit.”

  “No,” Olga said, crossing her arms.

  “Sit,” Sophia said. “Now. That was not a request.”

  Olga sat down with her arms folded. She looked like she was saving up spit.

  Sophia picked up the M4 and unloaded it. She noticed that Olga had put it on safe before tossing it down, which showed she wasn’t really round the bend.

  “Olga . . .” Sophia said, then paused. “Okay, let’s start with, ‘this Navy shit.’ ”

  “It’s stupid,” Olga said. “Aye, aye this and three bags full and port and starboard and sheets go on a bed!”

  “That’s not a big town,” Sophia said. “And tomorrow, whoever we get to climb aboard a dinghy is going to go in and pull out survivors. And you are going. You’re going not because you want to. But because I’m going to order you to. And if you don’t, Olga, I’m going to put you up on charges.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot, Sophia!” Olga said. “Thanks a lot!”

  “You’ll spend the rest of your time in the squadron in a little cabin with other people who have committed crimes,” Sophia said. “Because you raised your right hand and said that you swore to obey orders. You don’t want to go onshore. I know that. But the choice is between going and spending years in a cell. And it will be years, Olga. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll be old and white and gray by the time you see a town like this again.”

  “I thought you were my friend,” Olga said, crying.

  “I am,” Sophia said. “And I’m your commander. And you are going to get in the boat. And you are going to cut out some of those yachts. And you are going to sweep the town. Because if I let you slide, nobody will get on the boats. Nobody will get those yachts. And one of those yachts will find more than the number of people we’ll lose getting them. That’s it. Cold, hard, math. And that’s what all this Navy shit is all about. When it gets down to something like tomorrow, it’s about forcing people to do things they don’t want to do because the alternative is worse.”

  “And I suppose you’ll just stay on the boat, fat and happy?” Olga said.

  “No,” Sophia said. “Tomorrow, at least, I’ll be leading the away team. Frankly, I’d rather do that than sit on the boats and watch my people go out. Lieutenant Chen wanted to lead it but I convinced him not only do I have more ground combat experience, he needed to be on the boats. I want to make sure they’re here when we get back. And what I really want to do is go find some harbor that’s not teeming with sharks and catch a tan and drink some rum and maybe do a little diving. But that’s not what we get to do right now.

  “What we get to do is go find people who are dying and hopeless. So that in a few weeks, some of them will be back, hopefully, helping do the same thing. And maybe, just maybe, if we get enough of them, one day we can go find that beach that’s not black fucking volcanic sand surrounded by friends-eating sharks and drink some rum and talk about Cody.

  “But now, it’s Navy shit. Cold, hard, math. And tomorrow,
you’re going to be getting in that dinghy, in a shark-filled marina, and cutting out yachts. And if you really want to honor Cody, instead of shooting sharks, remember to keep your damned balance and don’t feed them. The correct response is ‘Aye, aye, Ensign.’ ”

  “Aye, aye, Ensign,” Olga said.

  “Last thing,” Sophia said. “If it had been you in the water and Cody sitting here, what would he have done tomorrow?”

  Olga thought about that for a while and shrugged.

  “He’d have gotten in the dinghy,” Olga said.

  “Because Cody was always about the God damned mission,” Sophia said, choking.

  “Oh, don’t you cry, too,” Olga said. “We’re never going to get anything done if you start crying.”

  “Like a river,” Sophia said. “And all we’ve got to do right now is play bait.”

  “I should have screwed him,” Olga said. “I was going to. I was just playing hard to get.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Sophia said, shrugging. “But that was yesterday. For tonight . . . Well, I’m going to have to clear with a hangover in the morning. Let’s have a wake . . .”

  * * *

  “Bloody hell,” Sergeant Major Barney said as the military “fast-boat” inflatable finally slowed. It had been going balls to the wall most of the night, more or less bouncing from wave top to wave top. And not regularly by any stretch of the imagination. Barney’s kidneys felt as if they were going to bleed for a week. But the “flotilla” was finally in sight, the only electric lights they’d seen since leaving Tenerife. “I thought Ferrets beat you up. I hope to never have to repeat this experience.”

  “Gotta love the ocean, Mick,” Chief Schmidt said. He’d slept like a baby most of the ride or at least seemed to have. “Think of her as a mother. An abusive one.”

  “Ah, well, that makes so much more sense, Yank, thanks,” Barney said. “But how do you handle it? I had a mum and dad.”